Spring is slowly springing on the ranch and I thought I would send you off into the weekend to enjoy it.
Pick yourself some crocuses…
Climb to the top of a hill…
Count the birds that are finding their way home…
Search for green things…
Follow the winding, thawing, crisp cold creek…
Catch the sunrise…
Stay out until sunset…
And just live in it.
Happy weekend
Around here it’s not too challenging to see the big picture–the buttes against the skyline, the cows in the pasture, the big brown dog in the dam, the fields of wheat and ditches full of yellow flowers, the oaks and birch trees reaching up toward the sky. I love standing on the top of the hills around our house and scanning the horizon and the pink ribbon of road below me, to see who might be coming or going–the sun, a neighbor, an oil field worker on his way home.
But often I feel like looking closer to see what’s happening down there in the grass, bushes and oak trees, in the shady cool places of the ranch. See, all those small pieces that make up the mosaic of this landscape fascinate me, so I pull on my walking shoes, take my camera and my husband if he’s willing and hit the coulees and the rolling pastures to have a look around–to immerse ourselves in the quiet places of the ranch.
We don’t talk much, to blend in, to make sure we see it all as we take turns leading one another through the cow and deer trails and notice how the dragonflies are in a frenzy, swooping and swerving and finding mates…
and how their delicate and transparent wings reflect the sun.
We stay silent as husband pushes a path with his boots along the side of the beaver dam and I take a moment to reflect on the signs of late summer, like the cattail that’s beginning to fuzz…
and the flowers that hang on down here in the shade, staying cool and crisp as they reach for small glimmers of sun peaking through the trees.
I kneel down to check out the mechanics, magic, motivation or science that allows the water bugs to stay rowing and afloat on the surface of the creek…
and husband is also looking closer, pointing out the school of minnows flashing their silver bellies in the hot sunlight warming the water.
I look at him, we look up at the birch tree branches.
He looks at me and I tell him to watch for mushrooms growing on trees…
and chokecherries and the plums in the draw where we picked bucket-fulls last summer…
or the thorns that could scrape through your long pants…
And we walk. Along that creek that runs between the two places and down to the neighbors’, through beaver dams and stock dams and ponds where the frogs croak wildly. We clear a path through bull-berry brush and dry clover up to our armpits. We jump over washouts and scramble up eroded banks and notice how some oak trees have fallen this summer, hollowed out and heavy with the weight of their age, the weight of a world that keeps changing, no matter what, no matter if a human eye ever sweeps past it or inspects it or theorizes about it, or tries to save it…it changes.
My wish is that he and I walk together in the coulees and off the paths in these acres for a lifetime with eyes wide to the small things that live and thrive and swim and crawl and grow outside our door.
My wish is that the small things will never lose their mystery and that the way husband and I move through those trees is the way we continue to move through life–switching leads, pointing out beauty and wonder, asking questions, being silent, stepping forward, taking time and loving the moment…
and one another in it.
Summer don’t leave me
stay under my feet
hang warm in the sky
don’t dry up the wheat
Summer stay near me
to kiss my skin tan
mess up my long hair
hold tight my hand
Summer please stay here
in the chokecherry trees
on the back of a good horse
in the green of the leaves
Oh, Summer my good friend
there’s only so many hours
so take the bees and the rainbows…
but don’t take my wildflowers
that I would come into this world a child of this earth
that I owe the moon and the night fireflies
my quiet mouth
and listening ear
and the rain my skin to lay kisses upon
that I would inhale the air
draw it deep
fill my lungs
and release with my breath
a compassion
and grow a heart light with plans
bursting to know
that we are a piece of this clay
the plush on the petal of the wild sunflower
the minutes that tick with each passing hour
the sun on the way to the dark
and the light that results from its spark
I would like to interrupt the drizzling skies, raging rivers, mud puddles and frizzy hair to wish everyone a happy first day of summer.
I’ve been waiting for this for a while and went out last night, despite a threatening sky, to see how things are growing–
Martha, how they’re growing!
The cat came with.
I don’t know why he comes with.
Neither does he.
He was pretty pissed when the sky opened up and dumped buckets of rain on the grass that reached well over his head, so he disappeared somewhere…
that cat is weird…
Anyway, I didn’t care about the rain (or the cat really) I just kept trucking up on to the top of a hill that, just months ago, required a good set of snowshoes and a hearty breakfast to reach.
Let’s reminisce for a moment:
December
June
December
June
December
June
December
June
December
June
What a difference a few months makes in this country!
I am always amazed how summer seems so far away during the depths of February when your cheeks are frozen, the FedEx man is stuck in your driveway and you find yourself wearing two parkas at once, only to wake up one morning to find grass up to your knees and every color of wildflower reaching for the sky.
But this summer is shaping up to be as challenging and unpredictable as its cousin winter–with unprecedented precipitation and unexpected rising rivers. So today I celebrate, and then send my thoughts and prayers to those battling flood waters, farmers who can’t get in their fields and families displaced.
Because Mother Nature, true to her form this first day of summer continues to be unpredictable, miraculous, stunning, gentle, quiet, subtle, colorful, splendid, nurturing and unforgiving all at once.
Here’s hoping that whether the rain soaks your skin, the sun hits your shoulders or the gentle breeze tousles your hair you can find a way to take a moment and give thanks for a season so short and so spectacular today.
I went out yesterday morning to feed some babies. It was the first time the sun appeared after a few days of rain and it was fresh and crisp and lovely all around.
I had a major amount of work to do in the house. Like piles of notes and phone calls to make and stories to write. That’s the thing about working from home, when you’re home, that work waves to you all uppity like from that little nook of a desk that sits in the middle of your house. You can’t escape it, you know, unless you wander off.
So I wandered, me and big brown dog. (The pug? So glad you asked. He was snoring on the couch inside, avoiding mornings like the plague is his thing.)
Then I said to myself: “Self, you’ve got time. This is why you live here. To feed the animals and spray the weeds and unload the dishwasher and avoid the laundry and ride some horses and wander. There might be something in there that says write and be productive and make a living, but I can’t be sure right now…oh and look, how convenient, I have my camera with me! How did that happen? I think I’ll just climb up this little knob and maybe I can find something to photograph seeing as things are all showered up and sparkly.”
So sparkly.
I like sparkly.
I wasn’t expecting anything but a couple bluebells, some horse poop, maybe a dried up crocus or two and a little time to clear my head, but as soon as I hit the top of the first butte, BAM!
It’s wildflower season.
I think we’ve been over my wildflower love affair before so you will have to forgive me as I revel in my obsession and breathe in the colors I’ve been waiting for all winter, the colors I could only find briefly in the sky that touched the white buttes on clear evenings.
I love that sky and I’ll see it again someday, but you’ll have to forgive the fact that all I desire is to put my nose to the ground for a few weeks, to poke around through the tall grass, kick the mushrooms, smell those soft petals and take them home for my kitchen table.
You’ll have to forgive all the photos of flowers that will be covering these pages during this very fleeting time in this very fussy climate. Because I am simply amazed, year after year, that as soon as the ground thaws out a garden that no human person planted just appears out of all of that clay and mud and poop and rocks.
Forgive me, yes. Forgive my amazement and overt enthusiasm for tiny little miracles like this…
and this…
and these…
Because who wouldn’t be excited about their own personal floral shop, a small offering given to us out here for enduring all of this snow and rain.
Gifts like the smell of sweet peas on your kitchen table that make a deadline a little more attainable, something that the dried up Glade plugin that has been sitting in my outlet for months has never fully achieved.
So thank you for taking this little wander with me. I tell ya there is a lot more where that came from, but I’ll try to restrain myself to ensure that you get some of the other exciting news from the ranch. Important things like:
Oh, and I’m playing music with pops tomorrow evening in Medora at the Roughriders Hotel–Theodore’s Dining Room. I will also be on Prairie Public Radio today at 3:00 (CT) to talk about being a part of Dakota Air: The Radio Show at the Burning Hills Amphitheater coming up on June 4th. Due to flooding in the Medora area, this show has been rescheduled for September 17th! But I’ll still be chatting on the radio, so catch it if you can online or on your dial. They’ll be playing some of my tunes and I’ll be talking about new music, old music and what’s to come.
More details on my upcoming appearances:
Thanks for all your support. Here, I picked these for you:
Hope to see you out west soon!
It’s been raining at the ranch for the last few days.
Raining, and thundering, and pouring and flooding and rushing the creekbeds.
And smelling so sweet.
So although I’m an outspoken fan of the sun, I know this is necessary. I know this is what spring does.
So I say bring it on. Let the heavens pour down and wash that winter away. Wash it clean and squeaky. We’ve been frozen and thirsty and our hair needs washing…
the worms need air…
the lilacs need watering…
the horses need waking up.
Rain sky. Cry it out. Turn the brown neon and make the flowers hunch over under the weight of your necessary presence.
I don’t mind. Really. I will stand in it all day.
I’ll splash in your puddles, let it soak in my skin, slide down the clay buttes, jump over the rushing streams. Because I forgot what this feels like, being soaked to the core and warm in spite of it.
I forgot what it looks like when the lighting breaks apart the sky.
I forgot how the thunder shakes the foundation of this little house, how it startles me from sleep and fills my heart with a rush of loneliness, a reminder that the night carries on while I’m sleeping.
I forgot how clean it smells, how green the grass can be, how many colors are in a rainbow.
So go on. Rain.
Rain all you want.
Rain forever on this hard ground and turn this pink road red..
This brown ground green
Let your drops encourage the fragile stuff, the quiet beauty that has been sleeping for so long to wake up and show her face to the sky.
It’s official.
Deep breath in and out.
Whew.
After a winter that dug its frozen fingers in, ate us out of house and home, turned our skin pasty and soft and all in all outstayed his welcome, peaking up from the once frozen ground is the first genuine promise of warmer days to come.
And when I say genuine I mean it, because this little signal that comes to us quietly on the hilltops has never failed to lift the dreary spirits of country people in the northern states.
Yes, the crocuses are here.
And if there was anything I needed to do upon returning to the ranch yesterday evening after a lovely day with family sitting out in the 60 degree sunshine–if there were chores or phone calls or words that needed to be said to you about Easter and family and the sweet memories this holiday stirs inside of me, all of that was trumped by husband’s and my deep desire to fling open the doors of the car, pull off our town clothes, change into our muck boots and climb the hills to find springtime treasures.
For anyone who grew up in a northern state or in the countryside where your world turns white for months you will understand this. You will understand what the crocus means to us here in rural North Dakota.
You will understand the sweet smell of dirt that accompanies the search and anticipation of spotting that first vivid purple petal emerging from the cold, damp, brown earth. And if you have patiently watched the snow drifts disappear and reappear outside your front porch as the months drag on, you will not laugh when I say at that moment you feel as though you have never seen a purple that deep, a petal as soft, a color so vibrant. Beauty has arrived.
And if you are from the prairie you will smile as you think of that first breeze catching your hair and the sunshine warming your shoulders as you fling off your spring jacket, let the warm soak in your skin and fall down to your knees to inspect the new arrival.
You will understand how, at that moment, you are eight years old again and you have your grandmother’s hand and you can hear her voice through the breeze. You can hear her exclaim “Oh, now look at that…” as your eyes move from the first flower and across the hill to notice that there are purple dots are everywhere. Scattered.
And if your world has been white and you have been restless you will appreciate the challenge you face just then where your enthusiasm for the change of season begs you to grab the flowers up, collect them for your pockets, pluck them for your basket or your bucket and bring them home to proudly display on windowsills and kitchen tables and countertops.
But instead you pause as your fingers run over the fuzz of the fragile flowers that reach for the sky in groups, holding hands with a promise to face this uncertain sky together.
Yes, if you are from the windswept buttes, the wheat fields, the quiet streams that cut through small cow pastures you will nod your head when I tell you that yesterday, when I finally found what I was after, I made sure I only picked one crocus from each group, careful to not leave any alone out there, certain not to pluck the hilltop clean of this precious flower that enters this world so confident, the first bud of prairie spring…
because life is short and a little piece of me felt like, for all this flower has given me, there should be some left out there to live it.
Yes, if you are from the once frozen Dakotas, you will nod your head because you have done the same thing and returned to your home with a modest bundle of furry purple flowers, shaking off the tiny bugs that have made their home inside the petals before setting the bouquet on your table with pride.
This is the ritual, these are the emotions conveyed by such a small and simple gift from nature. And we repeat this ceremony year after year, our excitement builds, our childhood reinvented, our hope for a new season renewed.
We anticipate, we make time, we know it’s coming every year…
But how do the crocuses know?
How do they know the ground is ready and the sky won’t forsake them?
How do they know that momma’s desperately need flowers just as much as papas desperately need to pick them for her?
How do they know when children need a treasure hunt and grammas need to lead the way?
How do they know just when to make a quiet and brilliant entrance to come and finish thawing us out?
How do they know just exactly when we need them?
In honor of the last day of summer (sniff, sniff…waahhhhh), I decided to share some of the photos that speak to the sunny side of life at the ranch and are sure to warm you like the wool mittens and ear-flap cap that will soon become a fashionable staple of my wardrobe.
I am sure I will be revisiting these pictures many times in the coming months, because come December, I tend to forget…
…what colors really look like…
…the smoky taste of brats and beans on a tiny grill…
…the warm wind in my face (or the fact that one day, I will be able to drive with the windows down again)…
…the sweet smell of wildflowers…
…the thrill of the first splash in big Lake Sakakawea…
…well, maybe “thrilling” isn’t the word of choice for all of us…
…the drama of the horizon…
…and the true meaning of “dog days”…
Enjoy the last day of the season everyone. I think I’ll celebrate by wearing my swimming suit and short shorts under my long pants, flannel and fluffy socks. Then I’ll eat some cookies. Lots and lots of cookies….
Goodbye summer…I miss your face already.
Sniff, sniff…
So, it was cold today. And I should have known after putting on my third long sleeved shirt (you know, over the other two) that something was up.
I don’t mind the chill that comes with the fall season here and find it a little thrilling that in this part of the country it can go from 85 degrees to 45 in 24 hours. It keeps us on our toes.
So I was looking forward to taking in the fall colors, enjoying the brisk (although brief) sweater season that comes before puffy coat, mitten and face mask season. But nature had a little surprise this afternoon–a little frosting before the leaves have even fully changed.
Outside my kitchen window...brrr...
Now for those of you who don’t live in North Dakota, just a disclaimer: this is not typical. But it is not unexpected.
So we took the air conditioning out of the window and I went outside to take some pictures of the things that, like me, may not quite be ready for the fluffy white stuff.
And now I’m making a casserole (you know, the kind with all of the “cream ofs” added in) in celebration of the first snow flurry and the fact that it has already melted.
The pug’s holding on to hope for 80 degrees tomorrow…
May all his dreams come true.
Happy fall!
Meanwhile, back at the ranch... 